


Conscience Fading To Madness

by helens78



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-09-16
Updated: 2003-09-16
Packaged: 2017-10-11 21:58:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helens78/pseuds/helens78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The ring controls Aragorn, and what Aragorn wants most is Boromir, brought back and broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Boromir

**Author's Note:**

> I originally posted this as "Swarming With Orcs".

If I had known the use of the Ring would come to this--

If I had known that even he could be lost to it--

Would the Fellowship have held if I had seen how the Ring would bring us to ruin? I know not; and I will not think on it. I have enough regrets without taking that upon my shoulders.

I regret the bitterness that took me when I found he was Aragorn son of Arathorn, and not the ranger who took me to his bed.

I regret going to his bed, early on, and treating him with too much disregard and too little gravity.

I regret allowing him to pull away from me as time went on.

I regret having fallen in love with him.

Too many to list. Too many to name. The time is past when we have the luxury to ruminate on what has gone before.

My brother has not returned. I fear the worst. It is up to me now.

May my ancestors watch me as I make this last stand for all of us.


	2. Boromir

Years ago I rode to Rivendell alone. Today it's Gondor.

It's Gondor the way I always dreamed of it, both in nightmares and the highest hopes I knew. The days of fighting to hold the City day and night are through. Now Gondor fights those who might have been its allies; those who once were. Any who resist the rule of Aragorn and the Ring are put down, crushed as rebels or traitors. Until last autumn, I was the head of the last resistance regiment in Middle Earth. And then one by one, we failed, until it was only my brother and myself.

And now it's only me.

Rewards have been posted for years, promising riches in exchange for my capture. I'm grateful the reward is for taking me alive; it seems to be generally accepted that if I were brought to Aragorn wounded or dead, those responsible would suffer for a very long time before they earned the privilege of dying.

I cannot fathom it. Does he want me still? Or does he only want to be the one who tortures me until I meet my own end?

Today I'll know.


	3. Eomer

We have been waiting for this day for years now. No one has waited with more patience than our Lord, which at once surprises us all and yet does not surprise any of us. He has more time available to him than the rest of us put together, I suspect. He can afford patience.

I wonder whether any of Faramir's early attempts at sending letters to his brother were successful. I intercepted four or five before Faramir broke for me. I would wager my life that none have been attempted since then, but in the early days I might have missed one. I was not watching him so closely then as I am now. And if any letters made it into Boromir's hands, he will want my head.

I do not know whether he will want it more or less once he discovers what Faramir has become since. We will see. But not so early on: our Lord has plans for Boromir, son of Denthor. Once Boromir of Gondor, and now Boromir: a man without a land, without a city, without an army, without a brother. Faramir is mine now, and would choose me over the life he once had. I have every confidence, and it is not ill-placed.

Boromir has not been harmed. It is for our Lord to break him, if and when he chooses to gift Boromir with the breaking. The announcement was never made in a public manner, but I believe it is well-known what would befall any who dared lay a hand on the former Steward of Gondor. Boromir belongs to our Lord. If any are fool enough not to realize it, it is on their heads.

And so it is that I find myself before a quiet, furious Boromir, whose eyes tell me he knows my name and my face as those of an enemy.

"How goes it with Boromir?" I ask. My tone is not unkind.

Boromir would stand, no doubt, were he able; he is chained down, his neck and wrists in manacles keeping him in a seated position, his back against the wall. He glares up at me and says nothing.

I crouch down beside him. "Aragorn our Lord and master will see you, eventually. Until then, you would be wise to give up whatever ideas of escape you may have. One does not escape from the walls of Minas Tirith."

"There was a time those walls were meant to keep danger from invading us, and not as a way of imprisoning our people," Boromir whispers. His voice is hoarse.

My eyes narrow. His voice is too hoarse -- as if he has been shouting.

"Be that as it may," I murmur, "you are trapped here, and it woud be better for you, in the end, to grow accustomed to it." I am stalling for time. "Have you been calling for aid?" I ask. "You might as well give that up. Aid is not forthcoming."

He says nothing. I stand and pace the floor in front of him. If there are injuries I have not seen -- if someone has brought harm to him and I have not found out -- it will be my head as well as whoever is responsible.

"How have you been treated?" I ask him. "I have heard that you rode alone to Minas Tirith. You were unharmed along the way?"

Nothing.

"Is there anything you require?"

Silence.

"We do not have to be enemies, you and I," I tell him. "If there are any who have brought harm to you inside these walls, I beg of you to tell me. Such behavior is not to go unpunished."

He smiles, then, and shakes his head. "You fear him," he says, finally. "I do not."

I stride across the room, looking him in the eyes. "Then you are a fool," I hiss. "Have you not seen what has happened to the world in the ten years since you shared his company?"

"Have you not," he counters, "Eomer Eomund-son? What has befallen your sister in those ten years?"

I see red. In time, I will realize it is blood. In more time, I will be grateful beyond words that it is my own; if I had struck him, if it had been my fist on his flesh instead of stone --

"Enough."

I stand and turn, breathing heavily. "My Lord."

Aragorn's eyes are expressionless, as they so often are. He nods to me. "Leave us," he murmurs. "You have done enough."

I nod and cross to him, nearly shoulder-to-shoulder as I make my way to the door. He takes my injured hand, stopping me in my tracks. I pause, watching him as he inspects the injury. With the single-mindedness that so often takes him when he watches me bleed, he slowly licks my hand clean, pressing his lips to the wound when he's done.

He has done this so often. I pray he will not make me beg to taste my blood on his lips this time.

"Go now," he says, no longer looking at me. He has eyes only for Boromir, who I do not envy.

I spare a glance back at them before I go. I cannot tell what our Lord is thinking. I see something in Boromir's eyes, and the expression is so familiar I cannot help the ache that comes over me at it. It is the intermingling of two feelings, each of which I have seen in Faramir's eyes, many times, though never together that way.

It is the hope Faramir brought with him when he first came here. And it is the love I have seen since.

I turn and take my leave. I do not envy Boromir. Later, I may pity him enough to grant him a visit with Faramir, but that day has not come yet.


	4. Eomer

"Is it true?" he asks me. I hold my arms out so he can remove my armor, and I don't answer.

"They're saying my brother rode into Minas Tirith last night," Faramir continues. "Is it true?"

"It's true," I tell him. I say nothing more until my armor is off. Faramir is careful in putting it away, and then he comes back to kneel for me. I doubt I'll ever grow tired of watching him kneel. The set of his shoulders has remained proud, somehow, for all the times that I've broken him. I drag fingers through his hair and then pull his head back to look at me. "Do you wish to see him?"

Faramir is bright enough to know this is not an offer; I simply wish to know the level of his interest. "Yes," he murmurs. His eyes begin to tear from my grip. "May I?"

"You may," I tell him, "if he earns it."

His eyes dim a bit. He blinks and then nods, despite the tug that results. "Does he know I'm here?" he asks.

"I don't know," I admit. And I don't want to talk about Boromir anymore. I want my slave. I press his head forward, dragging his face against my thigh. He sighs and nuzzles across to my cock, exhaling softly.

"Please," he whispers.

"Yes?"

"Please, may I taste you?"

More words I doubt I will ever tire of hearing. "Yes," I tell him. My grip moves to the nape of his neck. "Now."

His hands are eager to undo the laces of my leathers; he was not always this way, and I savor the enthusiasm. His mouth is warm and soft -- almost soothing. After the confrontation with Boromir, after the touch of our Lord's lips on my skin, Faramir's mouth is cleansing, in its way. I have nothing more to prove here, nothing more to earn. Only the certainty of my ownership, and the proof of his submission.

He earns the taste of my climax on his tongue, and I murmur my approval -- he has grown good at this over time. I trace my fingertips over his cheeks, and lean down to kiss him. "My own," I whisper.

"Yours," he says, wrapping his arms around my waist.

I let him stay that way for a time. I wonder, idly, as I draw fingers through his hair, how all the pieces of life will come together with Boromir in the City. Faramir is mine, and in time, Boromir will fall, but in the meantime, what will become of me? How will our Lord break the elder son of Denethor, and how long will he spend doing it?


	5. Boromir

Eomer Eorlingas. If there is anyone in Minas Tirith I would as soon see dead as Aragorn, it is Aragorn's lieutenant. I had one letter of word from my brother, and that letter spoke of the former rider of Rohan, and his sudden fondness for Faramir.

I would pray for my brother's strength, had I anything left to pray to.

I had hoped Eomer would strike me. I believe it might have meant his death. I cannot think of any other explanation for the way I have been treated. I am an enemy soldier, and I have remained unharmed. Had I wanted to, I could likely have brought the City to its knees, simply because none would have attacked me.

I told the truth when I said I do not fear the Ring-Bearer. I spoke the truth then. I do not know if I could speak the same words now.

His eyes are different. Wider. Bluer. They no longer speak of the sky. They are more sinister, somehow, and more threatening. They are sharp. Cruel. They have dealt death to innocents, knowingly. He hides none of it. He is changed.

He sits down before me, putting his eyes at a level with mine.

"Are you hungry?" he asks. "Thirsty?"

I am both, of course; I have had neither food nor drink since my surrender. I say nothing.

"Would you not be more comfortable in bed?"

"I suspect not, son of Arathorn, but I thank you for the offer."

Aragorn's eyes narrow, and he lets out a soft huff of a laugh. "Ever proud, Boromir. Ever stubborn. Do you expect that to do you well in my city?"

"I expect I would disappoint you were I easily broken," I tell him, "and I expect those who disappoint the Dark Lord Aragorn do not live long enough to repent."

Aragorn reaches out for me then, sliding his fingers alongside my cheek to hold my face in his hand. "I have missed you," he murmurs. "We were lovers once."

"Is that what you call it?" I cannot move while he holds me this way. It is not merely his hand that holds me, but his eyes too -- they fix on mine, and I cannot look away.

"I remember the way your body spoke to mine under cover of night." He leans close. "I remember the way you spoke to me of what was in your heart."

"I remember how free you were with the truth, even then," I tell him, "and I know now that I never had a moment's true grasp on what was in your heart."

"Unfair."

"Is it?"

"I was reluctant to take what had been thrust upon me by birthright. I was not a liar." Ever-closer, until I feel the heat of his breath on my face. "I loved you then, my steward, and I love you still. I am glad beyond words that you have returned to me."

His voice is soft, compelling. I curse myself as I feel my body responding to it. "You may be glad, ranger, but I am still chained. You do not trust me, either."

"I trust this." His hand glides over my throat, and I struggle for breath, trying to draw away -- he presses the iron of the collar into my flesh until I cannot back away from it. "I trust your fear. And I trust this." He slides his hand down my body, and as I gasp for air, he cups my erection in his hand. "I trust your desire."

My eyes close, then, as he begins caressing me, as he slides his hand beneath the layers of my clothing and begins to please me. I struggle against the chains, and he uses his other hand to pin my chest to the wall, where I struggle all the harder. I make soft pleading noises. I will do worse here, I know. I cannot afford to be ashamed. I will beg before he's through with me. It is only a matter of time.

His lips are at my ear, drawing on my earlobe. I shiver against him. "I trust your desire," he whispers to me. "You are mine, and your body is eager to prove it. Are you determined to deny it still?" He nips at my earlobe. "Answer me, Boromir, or I shall kiss you."

"My body--" I manage, "--wants you, as it ever did. But--" I moan, softly, against his shoulder, "--I am mortal, a man, and our bodies are ever traitorous."

"And that treachery delights you even as you curse it."

So easily. So easily he has me in tears. "Yes," I whisper, my face turning up so I can feel the skin of his throat against it, "yes, curse you, yes--"

"Come for me."

With a sharp, broken cry, I do, my seed spilling over his fingers. He allows me to continue my soft nuzzling against his neck until my breathing has gone back to normal, and then he turns his face to mine.

I turn away, as best I can.

He gives one hard, punishing squeeze to my softening erection, and my mouth opens in a desperate, pained cry. Instantly, his mouth is on mine, his tongue thrusting in to claim me. I gasp, I try to pull away, but his free hand cups the back of my neck and holds me.

His tongue licks its way out of my mouth, tracing gentle paths over my lips, and finally he releases me. "I am glad you've returned," he murmurs. "So glad. I have missed you."

I consider my next move carefully before I do it. I am courting chaos and disaster.

I spit in his face. My aim is perfect; I take him in the eye.

While he stares at me, while he is deciding how to respond, I give him a truth he is not expecting.

"I have missed you as well, Strider. I have missed the roughness of your hands, the touch of your lips, the warmth of your body against mine. But I miss my ranger. I miss he who was not consumed by the madness of the Ring."

Aragorn steps away from me then. His face is not easy to read; his eyes have gone flat. He stands and turns away from me. For a moment, I believe he is going to leave without another word. I am surprised when he speaks.

"You have much to learn, my once-lover. I am going to enjoy instructing you."

And then, only then, does he leave. And his words have me frightened, more so than I could have dreamed.


End file.
